"Well, I'm thinking of Aunt Fulda," said the candid Angelica. "You know,

she very much wants to make a Roman Catholic of me, and she gave me some

books to read, and of course I read them. They were all about the Church

being the true church and all that sort of thing. And then I got a lot of

books about other churches, and each said that _it_ was the true

church just as positively, and Aunt Fulda told me that anyone who would

read about _her_ church _must_ be convinced that it is the true

church, but the difficulty is to get people to read; so when I found these

other books I took them to her to show her all about the other true

churches, and I told her she ought to read them, because if there were

truth in any of them, we could none of us possibly be saved unless we

belonged to _all_ the different churches. But do you know, she

wouldn't look at a book! She said she wasn't allowed to! Now! what do you

think of that? and after telling me what a mistake it was not to read!"

Lady Fulda and her father were talking together in the window, and did not

therefore overhear these remarks, but Father Ricardo was listening, and

Ideala flashed a mischievous glance at him as Angelica spoke.

"Then," the latter continued before anyone could answer her, "Aunt Fulda

is just as good as she possibly _can_ be, and Father Ricardo says it

is because she has submitted to _his_ Holy Church; and Mrs. Orton Beg

and mamma are also as good as they possibly can be, and the Bishop of

Morningquest says that Mrs. Orton Beg is a holy woman because she is a

humble follower of Christ, but he rather shakes his head about mamma.

Uncle Dawne, however, and Dr. Galbraith both maintain that mamma is

admirable, because she doesn't trouble her head about churches and creeds

any longer. She used to do so once, but now she thinks only of what is

_morally_ right or wrong, and leaves the ecclesiastical muddle for

the divines to get out of as best they can. Mamma used to dread bringing

us to Morne when we were younger; we were always so outrageous here; and

we told her it was Aunt Fulda who made us so, because she is too good, and

the balance of nature has to be preserved. But, now, I am sure Aunt

Claudia is quite as good as she is, and so are you, and mamma, and Mrs.

Orton Beg."

Ideala smiled at her. "And so you are puzzled?" she said. "Well, now, I

will explain. Your aunts and mother, and Mrs. Orton Beg, are all of those

people born good, who would have been saints in any calendar, Buddhist,

Christian, or Jewish. They come occasionally--these good people--to cause

confusion on the subject of original sin, and overthrow the pride of

professors who maintain that their own code of religious ethics must be

the right one because it produces the best specimens of humanity. There

was a Chinese lady living at Shanghai a few years ago, a devout Buddhist,

who, in her habits of life, her character, her prayers, her penances, and

her sweetness of disposition, exactly resembled your Aunt Fulda, the only

difference between them being the names of the ideal of goodness upon whom

they called for help. Their virtues were identical, and the moral outcome

of their lives was the same."

"I see what you mean!" Angelica burst out. "And you wouldn't say either

'convert' or 'pervert' yourself, would you?"

"Well, no," Ideala acknowledged, "I always adopt a little pleonasm myself

to avoid Christian controversy, and say 'when So-and-so became' a Roman or

Anglican Catholic, a Protestant, Positivist, or whatever else it might be;

and I let them say 'convert' or 'pervert,' whichever they like, to me,

because I know that it really cannot matter, so long as they are

agreeable--not that anybody ever expects them to be, poor little people!

although they know quite well that they should never let their angry

passions rise. They have no sense of humour at all! But just fancy, how

silly it must seem to the angels when Miss Protestant throws down a book

she is reading and shrieks, '_Convert_, indeed!' while Miss Catholic

at the same moment groans,'_Pervert_,' indignantly! Must be

'something rotten in the state of Denmark,' surely, or one or other of

them would have proved their point by this time. Or do you suppose," she

added, looking at Lord Dawne, "that the opposition is mercifully

preordained by nature to generate the right amount of heat by friction to

keep things going so that we do not come to a standstill on the way to

human perfection? It is very wonderful any way," she added--"to the looker

on; wonderfully funny!"

"I did not know that Lady Adeline had definitely left the Church of

England," Mr. Kilroy observed, "and I am surprised to hear it."

"Are you?" said Ideala. "Now, we were not. Adeline has always been of a

deeply religious disposition; but it was not bound to be, and it was never

likely to be, the religion of any church which would secure her lasting

reverence."

"I wonder what the religion of the future will be?" Mr. Kilroy remarked.

"It will consist in the deepest reverence for moral worth, the tenderest

pity for the frailties of human nature, the most profound faith in its

ultimate perfectibility," Ideala answered. "The religion of the future

must be a thing about which there can be no doubt, and consequently no

dispute. It will be for the peace and perfecting of man, not for the

exercise of his power to outwit an antagonist in an argument; and there

are only the great moral truths, perceived since the beginning of thought,

but hard to hold as principles of action because the higher faculties to

which they appeal are of slower growth than the lower ones which they

should control, and the delights they offer are of a nature too delicate

to be appreciated by uncultured palates; but it is in these, the infinite

truths, known to Buddha, reflected by Plato, preached by Christ,

undoubted, undisputed even by the spirit of evil, that religion must

consist, and is steadily growing to consist, while the questionable

man-made gauds of sensuous service are gradually being set aside. The

religion of the future will neither be a political institution, nor a

means of livelihood, but an expression of the highest moral attribute,

human or divine--disinterested love."

She sat for some time, looking down at the floor, and lost in thought when

she had said this; and then, rousing herself, she turned to Father

Ricardo, "I had a fit of Roman Catholicism once myself," she said to him,

pleasantly, "I enjoyed it very much while it lasted. But you do a great

deal of harm, you clergy! In the first place you begin by setting up

Christ as an ideal of perfect manhood, and then you proceed to demolish

him as a possible example, by maintaining that he was not a man, but a

God, and therefore a being whom it is beyond the power of man to imitate!

Oh, you terrible, terrible clergy! You preach the parable of the buried

talents, and side by side with that you have always insisted that women

should put theirs away; and you have soothed their sensitive consciences

with the dreadful cant of obedience--not obedience to the moral law, but

obedience to the will of man; for what moral law could be affected by the

higher education of women?"

"The Anglican Church is rather countenancing the higher education of

women, is it not?" said Mr. Kilroy.

"You don't put it properly," Ideala answered. "Women, after a hard battle,

secured for themselves their own higher education, and now that it is

being found to answer, the churches are coming in to claim the credit.

Dear, how rapidly reforms are carried out when we take them in hand

ourselves!" she exclaimed. "All the spiritual power is ours, and while we

refuse to know, it must be wasted for want of direction."

"But that is what you reject," said Father Ricardo. "The Church is ever

ready to direct her children."

"For her own advantage, and very badly," Ideala answered. "Does her

direction ever benefit the human race generally, or anybody but herself in

particular? Every great reform has been forced on the Church from outside.

Just consider the state of degradation, and the dense ignorance of the

people of every country upon which the curse of Catholicism rests!

'Wherever churches and monasteries abound the people are backward' it is

written. Just lately, there has been a little revival of Catholicism, a

flash in the pan, here in England, due to Cardinal Newman and Cardinal

Manning, who introduced some good old Protestant virtues into your

teaching; but that cannot last. You carry the instrument of your own

destruction along with you in the degrading exercises with which you seek

to debase our beautiful, wonderful, perfectible human nature."

"But the Church has done all that is possible for the people," Father

Ricardo began lamely. "The Church has always taught, for one thing, that

the labourer is worthy of his hire."

"But the Church never used its influence to make the hire worthy of the

labourer; instead of that, it has always sought to grind the last penny

out of the people, and then it pauperized them with alms," said Ideala.

"Why have the priests done so little good, Uncle Dawne?" Diavolo asked.

"Because they are no better than other people," was the answer, "and when

they get money they use it just as everybody else does, to strengthen

their own position, and make a display with."

"Ah, the terrible mistake it has been, this making a paid profession of

the doing of good!" Ideala exclaimed.

Angelica, who had put her arm round Diavolo again, and was sitting with

her head against his, listening gravely, now looked at Ideala: "I want to

know where the true spirit of God is," she said.

"I can tell you," Ideala answered fearlessly. "It is in us _women_.

_We_ have preserved it, and handed it down from one generation to

another of our own sex unsullied; and very soon we shall be called upon to

prove the possession of it, for already"--she turned to Father Ricardo

here, and specially addressed him, speaking always in gentle tones,

without emphasis--"already I--that is to say Woman--am a power in the

land, while you--that is to say Priest--retain ever less and less even of

the semblance of power.

"Pardon me, dear lady," the priest replied; "but it shocks me to hear you

assume such an arrogant tone."

"I don't think the tone was in the least arrogant," Angelica put in

briskly; "and, at any rate, it's your own tone exactly, for I've heard you

say as much and more, speaking of the priesthood."

"Not exactly," Diavolo corrected her. "Father Ricardo always says:

'Heaven, for some great inscrutable purpose, has mercifully vouchsafed

this wondrous power to us, poor'--or humble or unworthy; the first

adjective of that kind he can catch--'priests.' I like the short way of

putting it myself."

"But why do you always try to make out that it is our duty to be

_miserable_ sinners?" Angelica asked.

"If we taught ourselves to be happy in this world, we should grow to love

it too much, and then we should not strive to win the next."

"And that would impoverish the Church?" Diavolo suggested.

"But why not let _us_ be happy, and you raise money in some other

way?" Angelica wanted to know. "Miracles--now I should try some miracles;

a miracle must be much better than a bazaar to raise the funds."

"Oh, but you forget the nunneries Father Ricardo was telling us about the

other day," Diavolo said; "the austere orders where they only live a few

years, you know."

"I had forgotten for the moment, but I read up the subject at the time,

and found out that when the nuns die all their money remains in the Church;

is that what you mean?" said the practical Angelica.

"Yes," said Diavolo. "You see, it would hardly cost ten shillings a week

to keep a nun, and of course," he said to Father Ricardo, "the more

fasting you counsel the less outlay there would be; so I don't wonder you

promise them more goodies in the next world, the more austerities they

practise in this."

"It must really work like a provision of nature for the enrichment of Holy

Church--so many nuns worked off on the prayer and fasting mill per annum,

so many unencumbered fortunes added to the establishment," Angelica

observed.

_"Jerusalem!_" said Diavolo. "How easy it is to gull the public!"

The Heavenly Twins had been speaking in a confidential tone, as if they

were behind the scenes with Father Ricardo, and now they watched him,

seeming to wait for him to wink--at least, that was how Dr. Galbraith

afterward interpreted the look. Nothing of this kind coming to pass,

however, they, both got up, and both together strolled out of the room,

yawning undisguisedly.

"That child, Angelica, will be one of us," Ideala whispered to Lord Dawne.

"Yes," he answered gravely; "They will both be of us eventually; only we

must make no move, but wait in patience 'Until the day break, and the

shadows flee away.'"

CHAPTER IV.

There was much high talk of doing good and living for others at Morne in

these days, to which the twins listened attentively. It is evident from

the thoughts they expressed at this time that the minds of both were in a

state of fermentation, and that the more active pursuits in which they

still indulged occasionally were the mere outcome of habit. When the

conversation was interesting, they would sit beside Father Ricardo (whom

they insisted on classing with themselves as an inferior being) and watch

the speakers by the hour together, and Father Ricardo too, gauging his

moral temperature, and noting every sigh of pity or shiver of

disapprobation that shook his sensitive frame.

"Where does it hurt you, _dear?_" Diavolo asked him once. "I know you

are a bad, bad man, because you say so yourself--"

"I never said so!" Father Ricardo exclaimed with a puzzled air.

"Well, you said you were a miserable sinner, not worthy, _et cetera_,

and it comes to the same thing," Diavolo rejoined; "and I don't wonder you

are disheartened when you see how impossible it is for you to be as

disinterestedly good as Uncle Dawne and Dr. Galbraith. I feel so myself

sometimes."

"Oh, I hope I am disinterested," Father Ricardo protested.

"I can't make it out if you are," said Diavolo, shaking his head. "You

don't seem to love goodness for its own sake, but for the reward here and

hereafter. The whole system you preach is one of reward and punishment."

Father Ricardo had an innocent hobby. He was fond of old china, and had

made a beautiful collection, with the help of such friends as Lord Dawne,

Dr. Galbraith, and Lady Adeline Hamilton-Wells, who never failed to bring

him back any good specimen they might find in the course of their travels.

One day at this time, after the talk had been running, as usual, upon

self-sacrifice and living for others, he invited the whole party to

inspect his collection; and they all went, with the exception of the

Heavenly Twins, who were not to be found at the moment. When the others

reached the room in which Father Ricardo kept his treasures, however, they

were surprised to find the cabinets comparatively speaking bare, and with

great gaps on the shelves as if someone had been weeding them

indiscriminately. The good Father looked very blank at first; but the

windows were wide open, and before he could think what had happened, a

noise on the lawn below attracted everybody's attention, and on looking

out to see what was the matter, they beheld the Heavenly Twins apparently

intent upon organizing a revel. They were very busy at the moment, and had

been for some hours evidently, for they had collected an organ man with a

monkey; a wandering musician with a harp; a man with a hammer who had been

engaged in breaking stones; a Punch and Judy party, consisting of a man,

woman, and boy, with their Toby-dog; five christy minstrels in their war

paint; a respectable looking mechanic with his wife and three children who

were tramping from one place to another in search of work; and a blind

beggar; and all these were seated in more or less awkward and constrained

attitudes on easy-chairs, covered with satin, velvet, or brocade, about

the lawn, with little tables before them on which was spread all the

cooked food, apparently, that the castle contained. When their admiring

relatives first caught sight of the twins, Angelica--who had coiled up her

hair, and wore a long black dress, borrowed from her Aunt Fulda's wardrobe;

a white apron with a bib, and a white cap like a nurse's, the property of

one of the lady's maids--was pouring tea out of a silver urn, and Diavolo,

in his shirt sleeves, with a serviette under his arm like a waiter in a

restaurant, was standing beside her with a salver in his hand, waiting to

carry it to the mechanic's lady.

"What on earth are you children doing?" Lord Dawne exclaimed.

"Feeding the hungry, sir," Diavolo drawled cheerfully.

"Well," groaned the poor priest, "you needn't have taken all my best china

for that purpose."

"We did that, sir," Diavolo replied with dignity, "in order that you, all

unworthy as you are, might have the pleasure of participating in this good

work. But, there!" he said to Angelica, "I told you he wouldn't appreciate

it!"

To the credit of the Heavenly Twins and their guests, it must be recorded

that no harm happened either to the china or the plate.

The next day was a Saint's day, and the children announced at breakfast

that they intended to keep it. They said they were going to compose a

religion for themselves out of all the most agreeable practices enjoined

by other religions, and they proposed to begin by making that day a

holiday.

Mr. Ellis would have remonstrated at the waste of time, and Father Ricardo

at the absence of proper intention, but the way the twins had put the

proposition happened to amuse the duke, and therefore they gained their

point. But, having gained it, they did not know very well what to do with

themselves. Angelica wouldn't make plans. She was thinking of the long

dress she had worn the day before, and feeling a vague desire to have her

own lengthened; and she wanted also to take that mysterious packet known

as her "work" to her Aunt Fulda's sitting room, where the ladies usually

spent the morning, so as to be with them, but she knew that Diavolo would

scorn her if she did; and the outcome of all this vagueness of intention

was a fit of excessive irritability. She wanted sympathy, but without

being aware of the fact herself, and the way she set about obtaining it

was by being excessively disagreeable to everybody. There was a rose in a

glass beside her plate, and she took it out, and began to twiddle it

between her fingers and thumb impatiently, till she managed to prick

herself with the thorns, and then she complained of the pain.

"Oh, that sort of thing doesn't hurt much," Diavolo declared.

"It _does_ hurt," she maintained aggressively; "and pain is pain,

whether the seat of it be your head, heart, or hind-quarters."

"_Angelica!_" Lady Fulda exclaimed with tragic emphasis. "Someone

must really talk to you _seriously!_ you are positively

_vulgar!_"

"Thank Heaven!" Angelica ejaculated fervently. "I knew I was going to be

something!"

She get up as she spoke, and walked out of the room with her head in the

air, affecting a proud consciousness of having had greatness suddenly

thrust upon her.

Lady Fulda looked helplessly, first at Father Ricardo, then at Mr. Ellis.

"Can't you do something?" she said to the latter.

Mr. Ellis replied by an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. "We

know better than to interfere when she's in one of her bad-language

tantrums," Diavolo explained.

When his grandfather left the table, he followed him uninvited on a tour

of inspection around the castle and grounds, and, finally, retiring with

him to the library, whither the old duke usually went to rest, read, or

meditate sometime during the morning, he coiled himself up in an armchair,

took a small book out of his pocket, and began to study it dilligently.

His grandfather glanced at him affectionately and with interest, from time

to time. He was lonely in his old age, and liked to have the boy about. He

had nobody left to him now who could touch his heart or take him out of

himself as Diavolo did, for nobody else attached themselves to him in the

same way, or showed such an unaffected preference for having him all to

themselves,

"What are you reading, sir?" he asked him at last.

"'Euripides,' sir," Diavolo answered, glancing over the top of his book

for a moment as he spoke. "I'm just where Hippolytus exclaims: 'O Jove!

wherefore indeed didst thou place in the light of the sun that specious

evil to men--woman?'"

"Are you reading 'Euripides' with a 'Key'?" his grandfather asked sternly.

"No, I am reading a key to 'Euripides,'" Diavolo answered,

"Don't you know your Greek, sir?" his grandfather demanded.

"I'm just looking to see, sir," Diavolo rejoined, returning to his book.

When he had finished the page, he looked up at his grandfather, who was

sitting with his hands folded upon a large volume he held open on his

knee, meditating, apparently.

"Beastly bad tone about women in the Classics," Diavolo remarked; "don't

you think so, sir?"

"Ah, my boy, you don't know women yet!" the old duke responded.

"Then I've not made the most of my opportunities," Diavolo said with a

grin, "for we meet with a fine variety in the houses about here! But what

I object to in these classical chaps," he resumed, "is the way they

sneaked and snivelled about women's faults, as if they had none of their

own! and then their mean trick of going back upon the women, and

reproaching them with their misfortunes."

"What do you mean by that?" his grandfather asked.

"Well, sir, I suppose you would call old age a misfortune to a pretty

woman?" Diavolo answered. "And just look at the language in which that

fellow Horace taunts Lydia and Lyce when they grow old, and after the

sickening way he fawned upon them when they were young, too! And here

again," he said, holding up his book, "is that fellow Hippolytus. Just

because one woman has shocked him, he says '... Never shall I be satisfied

in my hatred against women.... For in some way or other they are always

bad.' And a little further back, too"--he scuffed the leaves over--"he

says that woman is a great evil _because_ men squander away the

wealth of their houses upon them. If the men were such superior beings,

why don't they show it somehow? Horace was as spiteful himself as any old

woman; we should have called him a cad nowadays. And all this abuse"--he

shook his 'Euripides'--"is beastly bad form whichever way you look at it."

He ruffled his thick tow-hair as he spoke, and yawned in conclusion.

"Then you are coming out as a champion of women?" said the duke.

"Oh, by Jove, no!" Diavolo exclaimed, straightening himself. "I haven't

the conceit to suppose they would accept such a champion, and besides, I

think it's the other way on now; _we_ shall want champions soon. You

see, in the old days, women were so ignorant and subdued, they couldn't

retaliate or fight for themselves in any way; they never thought of such a

thing. But, now, if you hit a woman, she'll give you one back promptly,"

he asseverated, rubbing a bump on his head suspiciously. "She'll put you

in _Punch_, or revile you in the Dailies; Magazine you; write you

down an ass in a novel; blackguard you in choice language from a public

platform; or paint a picture of you which will make you wish you had never

been born. Ridicule!" he ejaculated, lowering his voice. "They ridicule

you. That's the worst of it. Now, there's Ideala, she can make a fellow

ridiculous without a word. When old Lord Groome came back from Malta the

other day, he called, and began to jeer at Mrs. Churston's feet for being

big and ugly. Ideala let him finish; and then she just looked down at his

own feet, and you could see in a minute that he wished himself an Eastern

potentate with petticoats to hide them under; for they were ugly enough to

be indecent."

The duke stretched out one of his own miniature models of feet upon this,

and glanced at it complacently.

"Where do you get all these ideas?" he asked. "At your age I never had any;

and if I had, I should have been ashamed to own it. You'll be a prig,

sir, if you don't mind."

"_I_ don't mind," Diavolo rejoined. "I've heard you say that ladies

dearly love a prig, and therefore I rather think of cultivating that

tone."

"You should have been sent to a public school," his grandfather said. "It

would have made a man of you."

"Oh, time will do that just as well," Diavolo answered encouragingly.

At that moment the door opened, and Lady Fulda entered.

"Papa, may I speak to you now?" she asked, and Diavolo got up politely and

lounged off to look for Angelica. He did not succeed in finding her,

however, because she had driven into Morningquest to do some shopping with

her Aunt Claudia and Ideala. She hated shopping as a rule, and could

seldom be persuaded to do any; but that morning, after breakfast, she had

gone to Lady Fulda's room, where the three ladies were sitting, and after

fidgeting them to death by wandering up and down, doing nothing, with a

scowl on her face, and an ugly look of discontent in her fine dark eyes,

she had burst out suddenly: "Aunt Fulda! I want some long dresses." Lady

Fulda looked up at her in blank amazement; but Lady Claudia, who was all

energy, rolled up her work on the instant, rang the bell, ordered the

carriage, and answered: "Come, then, and get what you like."

And ten minutes afterward they had started.

Several unsuccessful attempts had been made to persuade Angelica to wear

long dresses, and Lady Claudia felt that now, when she proposed it

herself, it would never do to check the impulse; and accordingly, in less

than a week from that day, Angelica, the tom-boy, was to all appearance no

more, and Miss Hamilton-Wells astonished the neighbourhood.

She came down to the drawing room quite shyly in her first long dinner

dress, with her dark hair coiled neatly high on her head. She had met Mr.

Kilroy on the stairs, and he had looked at her in a strange, startled way,

but he said nothing; and neither did anybody else when she entered the

room. Her grandfather, however, opened his eyes wide when he saw her, and

smiled as if he were gratified. Lord Dawne gave her a second glance, and

seemed a little sad; and Ideala went up to her and kissed her, and then

looked into her face for a moment very gravely, making her feel as if she

were on the eve of something momentous. But Diavolo would not look at her

a second time. One glimpse had been enough for him, and during the whole

of dinner he never raised his eyes.

His uncle Dawne saw what was wrong with the boy, and glanced at him from

time to time sympathetically. He meant to talk to him when the ladies had

left the table, but Diavolo escaped unobserved before he could carry out

his intention.

Mr. Ellis, however, had seen him go, and followed him. He found him in the

schoolroom, crying as if his heart would break, his slender frame all

shaken with great convulsive sobs, and the old books and playthings which

had suddenly assumed for him the bitterly pathetic interest that attaches

to once loved things when they are carelessly cast aside and forgotten,

scattered about him. Mr. Ellis sat down beside, him, and touched his hand,

and tried to comfort him, but the tutor was sad at heart himself.

Before very long, however, Angelica burst in upon them, with her hair

down, and in the shortest and oldest dress she possessed. Her passionate

love for her brother had always been the great hopeful and redeeming point

of her character, and if she did show it principally by banging his head,

she never meant to hurt him. Almost any other sister would have owed him a

grudge for not admiring her in her first fine gown, and so spoiling her

pleasure; but Angelica saw that he was thinking that the old days were

over, and there had come a change now which would divide them, and she

thought only of the pain he was suffering on that account. So, when she

found that he was not going to join the ladies in the drawing room, she

rushed upstairs to her own room, which her maid was arranging for the

night, and relieved her feelings by tearing off her dinner dress, rolling

it in a whisp, and throwing it at the woman. Her petticoats followed it,

and then she kicked off her white satin shoes, one of which lit on the

mantelpiece, the other on the dressing table; and, tearing out her

hairpins, flung them about the floor in all directions.

"My old brown gown, Elizabeth," she demanded, stamping.

"What's the matter, Miss--"

But Angelica had snatched the gown from the wardrobe, put it on, and was

halfway downstairs, buttoning it as she went, before the maid could finish

the sentence.

When she entered the schoolroom, she threw herself on her knees beside

Diavolo, and hugged him tight, as if she been going to lose him

altogether, or he had just escaped from a great danger.

"I won't wear long dresses if you don't like them," she protested.

"Well, you can't go about like that," he grumbled, recovering himself the

moment he felt her close to him again, and struck by a sense of

impropriety in her short skirt after the grown-up appearance she had

presented in the long one. "You look like a beggar."

"Well, if I _do_ wear a long one," she declared, "it shall only be a

disguise. I promise you I'll be just as bad as ever in it," and she drew a

handkerchief out of her pocket, which had been left there for months and

was frowsy, and wiped her own eyes and Diavolo's abruptly, "Your feelings

are quite boggy, Diavolo," she said, giving a dry sob herself as she

spoke. "You can't touch them at all without coming to water. You cry when

you laugh."

Mr. Ellis had stolen softly out of the room as soon as he could do so

unobserved, and now the twins were sitting together in their favourite

position on the same chair, with their arms around each other, and

Angelica's dark head slanted so as to lean against Diavolo's fair one.

He had rewarded her last remark with a melancholy grin; but the clouds had

broken, and it now only required time for them to roll away.

"You'll get a moustache in time," Angelica proceeded, in her most

matter-of-fact tone. "I can see signs of it now in some lights, only it's

so fair it doesn't show much."

"I'll shave it to make it darker," he suggested.

"No, you mustn't do that," she answered, "because that'll make it coarse,

and I want you to have one like Uncle Dawne's. But when it comes it will

make you look as much grown up as my long dresses do me, and then we'll

study some art and practise it together, and not be separated all our

lives."

"We will," said Diavolo.

"But I think we ought to begin at once," Angelica added thoughtfully.

"Just give me time to consider. And come out into the grounds for a

frolic. I feel smothered in here; and there's a moon!"

CHAPTER V.

Edith Beale had now been married for more than a year to Sir Mosley

Menteith, and the whole of their life together had been to her a painful

period of gradual disillusion--and all the more painful because she was

totally unprepared even for the possibility of any troubles of the kind

which had beset her. Parental opinion and prejudice, ignorance, education,

and custom had combined to deceive her with regard to the transient nature

of her own feeling for her lover; and it was also inevitable that she

should lend herself enthusiastically to the deception; for who would not

believe, if they could, that a state so ecstatic is enduring? Even people

who do know better are apt to persuade themselves that an exception will

be made in their favour, and this being so, it naturally follows that a

girl like Edith, all faith and fondness, is foredoomed by every

circumstance of her life and virtue of her nature, to make the fatal

mistake. But, as Evadne told her, passion stands midway between love and

hate, and is an introduction to either; and there is no doubt that, if

Menteith had been the kind of repentant erring sinner she imagined him,

her first wild desire would have cooled down into the lasting joy of

tranquil love. Menteith, however, was not at all that kind of man, and,

consequently, from the first the marriage had been a miserable example of

the result of uniting the spiritual or better part of human nature with

the essentially animal or most degraded side of it. In that position there

was just one hope of happiness left for Edith, and that was in her

children. If such a woman so situated can be happy anywhere it will be in

her nursery. But Edith's child, which arrived pretty promptly, only proved

to be another whip to scourge her. Although of an unmistakable type, he

was apparently healthy when he was born, but had rapidly degenerated, and

Edith herself was a wreck.

They had been out to Malta for a short time, but had come home, Menteith

being invalided, and were now at a bracing sea-side place, trying what the

air would do for them all.

It was Edith's habit to send the child out with his nurse directly after

breakfast, and having done so as usual one morning, she remained alone

with her husband in the breakfast room, which looked out upon the sands.

She had her hands idly folded on her lap, and was watching Menteith as she

might have watched a stranger about whom she was curious. He sat at some

distance from her reading a paper, and there was no perceptible change in

him; but she had changed very much for the worse. Why was she not

recovering her strength? Why had it pleased Heaven to afflict her? That

was what she was thinking, but at the same time she blamed herself for

repining, and, in order to banish the thought, she rose, and, going over

to her husband, laid her hand gently on his shoulder, courting a caress.

He had been lavish enough of caresses at first, but all that was over now,

and he finished the paragraph he was reading before he noticed Edith at

all. Then he glanced at her, but his eyes were cold and critical.

"You certainly are not looking well," he observed, evidently meaning not

attractive, as if he were injured by the fact. He got up when he had

spoken, so that in the act of rising he dislodged her hand from his

shoulder. Then he yawned and lounged over to the window, which was wide

open, the weather being warm; and stood there with his legs apart, and his

hands in his pockets, looking out.

One little loving caress or kindly word would have changed the whole

direction of Edith's thoughts; but, wanting that, she stood where he had

left her for some moments, lost in pained reflection; and then she

followed him listlessly, seated herself in a low easy-chair, and looked

out also.

There were crowds of people on the sands, and her dull eyes wandered from

group to group, then up to the sky, and down again to the sea and shore.

The sun shone radiantly; sparkles of light from the rippling wavelets

responded to his ardent caress. The sea-sweet air fanned her face. But

neither light, nor air, nor sound availed to move her pleasurably.

"Is this to be my life?" she thought.

The tide was coming in over the sands. Some children with their shoes and

stockings off were playing close to the water's edge. They had made a

castle, and were standing on the top of it, all crowded together, waiting

for a big wave to come and surround them; and when at last it came, it

carried half their fortress away with it, and they all hopped off into the

water, and splashed up through it helter-skelter, with shouts of laughter,

to the dry land.

"I should have enjoyed that once," thought Edith.

A party of grown-up people cantered past upon donkeys, driven by boys with

big sticks. The women were clinging to the pommels of their saddles, and

shrieking as they bumped along, while the men shouted, and beat and kicked

the donkeys with all their might.

"Horrid, common, cruel people!" thought Edith. "How dreadful it would be

to have to know them!"

A girl came riding past alone on a hired horse. She wore a rusty black

skirt over her petticoats. It was gathered in by a drawing string at the

waist, and made her look ludicrously bunchy. Her stirrup was too short;

and she clung desperately with both hands to whip and reins and saddle,

only venturing to guide her horse now and then-in a timid, half apologetic

sort of way, as if she were afraid he would resent it. She must have felt

far from comfortable, but probably the dream of her life had been to ride,

and now that she was riding she admired herself extremely.

Edith involuntarily drew a mental picture of the contrast she herself

presented on horseback. "But that girl is well and happy," she objected,

to her own disadvantage.

She became aware at this moment of another girl who was passing on foot.

She was one of those good-looking girls of the middle class who throng to

fashionable watering-places in the season--young women with senses

rampant, and minds undisciplined, impelled by natural instinct to find a

mate, and practising every little art of dress and manner which they

imagine will help them to that end by making them attractive. Their object

is always evident in their eyes, which rove from man to man pathetically,

pleadingly, anxiously, mischievously, according to their temperaments, but

always with the same inquiry: "Will it be you?"

This girl had made herself by tight-lacing into a notable specimen of the

peg-top figure, bulgy at the bust and shoulders, and tapering off at the

waist. She had also squeezed her feet into boots that were much too small

for them, and fluffed her hair out till her head seemed preposterously

large--by which means she had achieved the appearance known to her set as

"stylish."

When Edith first saw her she was walking along very quickly with a

dissatisfied look on her face; but as she approached the window she

glanced up, and, seeing Menteith, her countenance cleared; and she

slackened her speed, seeming suddenly to become uncertain of the direction

she wished to take. First, she half stopped, and appeared to be thinking;

then she hastily put her hand in her pocket, and looked back the way she

had come, as if she had lost something; then shrugged her shoulders to

signify that it didn't much matter, and with a far-away look in her eyes

walked slowly into the sea; this was in order that she might spring nimbly

out again with a fine pretence of confusion at her affected fit of

absent-mindedness.

Menteith watched these manoeuvres attentively, patiently awaiting the

inevitable moment when she would look at him again. So far, she had

pretended to ignore him, but he understood her tactics, and as he observed

them, he twisted first one end and then the other of his little light

moustache, with a self-complacency not to be concealed. He had been

feeling bored all the morning, but now his interest in life revived. He

had only the one interest in life, and when the girl on the beach had done

all she could to excite it, she glanced at him again, and saw by the look

with which he responded that she had succeeded. Then she sat down on the

sand, placing herself so that she could meet his eyes every time she

looked up, and taking a letter out of her pocket she began to read it,

varying the expression of her countenance the while, to show that she

derived great pleasure from the perusal. This was to pique Menteith into

supposing that he had a rival.

The girl had not troubled herself about Edith's presence, but the latter

had also been watching her wiles--dully enough, however, until all at once

a thought occurred to her, a hateful thought.

It was the emotional rather than the intellectual side of her nature which

had been developed by early associations. She had been accustomed to feel

more than to think, and now, when all food for elevating emotions had been

withdrawn from her daily life, others, mostly of a distressing kind, took

possession of her mind. She had gone through all the phases of acute

misery to which a girl so trained and with such a husband is liable. She

had been weakened into dependence by excess of sympathy, and now was being

demoralised for want of any. Menteith had hung upon her words at first,

had been responsive to her every glance; but latterly he had become

indifferent to both; and she knew it, without, however, comprehending the

why and wherefore of the change, or of the growing sense of something

wanting which was fast becoming her own normal condition. She was still

fighting hard to preserve the spiritual fervour which had been the

predominant characteristic of her girlhood; but, at this period of their

intercourse, she knew better than to attempt to re-arouse in him that

semblance of spirituality which had deluded her in their early

passion-period. But she had from the first cultivated a passive attitude

toward him, and that even when the natural instinct of her womanhood

impelled her to war with him. In any case, however, instinct is not

safeguard enough for creatures living under purely artificial conditions;

they must have knowledge; and Edith had been robbed of all means of

self-defence by the teaching which insisted that her only duty as a wife

consisted in silent submission to her husband's will. Her intellectual

life, such as it was, had stopped short from the time of her intimate

association with Menteith; and her spiritual nature had been starved in

close contact with him; only her senses had been nourished, and these were

now being rendered morbidly active by disease. The shadow of an awful form

of insanity already darkened her days. The mental torture was extreme; but

she fought for her reason with the fearful malady valiantly; and all the

time presented outwardly only the same dull apathy, giving no sign and

speaking no word which could betray the fury of the rage within.

This last thought took her unawares as usual, and followed an accustomed

course. She had entertained it for a moment, turning it over in her mind

with interest before she realized its nature. When she did so, however,

her soul sickened. "What am I coming to?" she mentally ejaculated,

recovering herself with an effort; which resulted also in a sudden

resolution.

"I want to go home," she said. Her voice was very husky.

Menteith, startled from the absorbing occupation of ogling the girl on the

beach, looked at her sharply. Had she noticed what he was up to, and was

she jealous by any chance, as these confounded unreasonable women are apt

to be? No, he concluded, after carefully scrutinizing her face and

attitude; there was not a trace of that kind of thing, and she evidently

only meant what she had said. "And, by Jove!" he thought, "it's an

excellent idea, for she's looking anything but nice at present. Marriage

is certainly a lottery! A fellow chooses a girl for her health and beauty,

and gives her everything she can want in the world, and in less than a

year she's a wreck?" The injury done to himself, implied in this last

reflection, caused a certain amount of irritation, which betrayed itself

in the politely "nagging" tone of his reply:

"What precisely do you mean by 'home'?" he asked.

"I mean Morningquest," she answered.

"Ah!" he ejaculated. "That was what I inferred."

"I hope I have not said anything to annoy you?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, dear, no!" he assured her. "I know your sex too well to be annoyed by

any of its caprices. But still," he added, "a wife does not usually make

her 'home' with her parents."

"But we have no settled home," she remonstrated.

"Do you mean that for a reproach, because my want of means at present

obliges me to keep my houses shut up?" he asked.

"No," she answered with a gleam of spirit, "and you know I do not."

There was a pause after this. It pleased him to make her ask for his

permission to go to her mother, in so many words. He perceived that she

found it difficult to do so, and there was satisfaction in the respect and

fear which he thought were betokened by her hesitation. The sense of power

and possession flattered his self-esteem and enlivened him.

"Do you object?" she ventured at last.

"To what, dear?" he asked, without interrupting an exchange of amorous

glances which was just then going on between himself and the girl on the

beach.

"To my going home?"

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed, smiling. "Only to that way of putting it. By the

way," he added pleasantly, taking up a pair of opera glasses that were

lying on a table beside him, and adjusting the sight, "shall I accompany

you?"

Edith had taken it for granted that he would, as they had never yet been

separated since their marriage; and the question, striking as it did

another note of change, surprised and hurt her. But as it was evident that

he would not have asked it had he wished to go, she answered quietly: "Oh,

no! Why should you trouble yourself?"

"It would be no trouble, I assure you," he answered, confirming her first

impression that he did not wish to go.

"Oh, no!" she repeated. "I could not think of taking you away from

here--if the air is doing you good."

"Ah, well," he answered, catching at the excuse, "I suppose I ought to

forego the pleasure, for I am just beginning at last to feel some benefit

from the change, and I should probably lose the little good it has done me

if I go away now. Morningquest is relaxing. However, I shall join you as

soon as I can, you know!" This was said with a plausible affectation of

being impelled by a sense of duty to act contrary to his inclination,

which did not, however, impose upon Edith; and the thought that the wish

to be with her now was not imperative _although_ she was ill became

another haunting torment during the short remaining time they were

together; but, happily for herself, she never perceived that he did not

care to accompany her principally _because_ she was ill.

She left that afternoon with her servants and child, and he saw to the

preparations for their departure with cheerful alacrity. She was

depressed, and he told her she must keep up her spirits

for--everybody's--sake! and set her a good example by keeping his own up

manfully. He saw her off at the station, and stood smiling and bowing,

with his hat in his hand, until she was out of sight; and then he turned

on his heel and went with a jaunty air to look for the girl on the beach.

Up to the last moment, Edith would have been thankful for any excuse to

change her mind and stay; but when she found herself alone, and the

journey had fairly begun, she experienced a sudden sense of relief.

She had not realized the fact; but latterly her husband's presence had

oppressed her.

CHAPTER VI.

The Beales had not seen their daughter and grandson for some months, and

the appearance of both was a shock to them. They said not a word to each

other at first, but neither of them could help looking at Edith furtively

from time to time on the evening of her arrival. When the bishop came up

to the drawing room after dinner and had settled himself in his accustomed

easy-chair, Edith had crept to his side, and, slipping her hand through

his arm, sat leaning her head against his shoulder, and staring straight

before her, neither speaking nor listening except when directly addressed.

Her father, between whom and herself there had always been a great deal of

sympathy, was inexpressively touched by this silent appeal to his love;

and letting the paper lie on his lap, he sat silent also, and serious,

feeling, without in any way knowing, that all was not well.

Mrs. Beale was also depressed, although she assured herself again and

again that such deep devotion between father and daughter was an elevating

and beautiful sight, which it was a privilege to witness; and tried to

persuade herself that they were all extremely happy in the tranquil joy of

this peaceful evening spent alone together, with the world shut out.

"That child is not right," the Bishop said, when Edith had gone to bed.

"Have you noticed her face? I don't like the look of it at all; not at

all."

"Isn't that rather unkind, dear?" Mrs. Beale replied. "I always recovered

in time."

"You never were as ill as the poor child evidently is," he answered; and

retired to his library, much disturbed.

But Mrs. Beale determined not to worry herself, and managed to dismiss the

subject from her mind until next day, when she was sitting alone with her

daughter in the morning room up stairs. They were both working, but the

conversation flagged, and Mrs. Beale, from wondering why Edith was so

uncommunicative, found herself involuntarily repeating the bishop's

observation: "That child is not right," and the question: "What is the

matter with your face, dearest?" slipped from her unawares.

"I don't know, mother," Edith answered shortly.

She had never before in her life spoken to her mother in that tone, and

the latter was surprised and hurt for a moment; but then persuaded herself

that some irritability was only natural if the child were out of health,

and at once made proper allowances.

Edith got up when she had spoken, and left the room.

She was occupying one of the state departments of the palace then, but on

the way to it she had to pass the room which had been hers as a girl. The

door was open, and she went in. Nothing was changed there; but the moment

she entered she felt that there was a direful difference in herself. The

sad, benignant Christ, with tender, sympathetic eyes, looked down upon her

from the picture on the wall; but she returned the glance indifferently at

first, and then, remembering the rapture with which she had been wont to

kneel at his feet, she looked again. The recollection of the once dear

delight tantalized her now, however, because it did not renew it; and,

turning from the picture impatiently, she went to the window, and there

sank on to the seat from whence she had looked out at the moonlight and

the shadows on the night of the day on which it had been arranged that she

should winter with her mother at Malta. And here again she endeavoured to

recall the glow of sensation which had thrilled her then; but only the

lifeless ashes of that fire remained, and they were burnt out past all

hope of rekindling them. Even the remembrance of what her feelings had

been eluded her, and she could think of nothing but after

experiences--experiences of her married life, and those precisely which it

was not wise to recall. They were not exactly thoughts, however, that

occupied her, but emotions, to which, looking out on the sunlit garden

with rounded eyes and pupils dilated to the uttermost, she had

unconsciously lent herself for some time, as on other occasions, before

she realized what she was doing. Suddenly, however, she came to her

senses, and fled in affright to the morning room, where she threw herself

down on her knees beside her mother impetuously, and buried her face in

her lap.

"Take care, dear child!" Mrs. Beale exclaimed. "You will hurt yourself."

"Mother! Mother!" Edith cried. "I have such terrible, terrible thoughts! I

cannot control them. I cannot keep them away. The torment of my mind is

awful. I could kill myself."

Mrs. Beale turned pale. "Pray, dearest!" she ejaculated.

"I do, I do, mother," Edith wailed; "but they mingle with my prayers. God

is a demon, isn't he?"

Mrs. Beale threw her arms round her daughter, and almost shook her in her

consternation. "Edith, darling, do you know what you are saying?" she

demanded.

Edith looked into her face in a bewildered way. "No, mother, what was it?"

she answered.

Then all outward sign of Mrs. Beale's agitation subsided. Some shocks

stun, and some strengthen and steady us. The piteous appeal in Edith's

eyes, the puzzle and the pain of her face as she made an effort to recall

her words and understand them, had the latter effect upon her mother.

"I am afraid you are very weak, dear child," the poor lady bravely

responded. "Weakness makes people unhealthy-minded. You must see the

doctor, and have a tonic."

"The doctor again!" Edith groaned. "It has been nothing but the doctor and

'tonics' ever since I have been married."

"What does he say is the matter exactly?" Mrs. Beale asked.

"All his endeavour seems to be not to say what is the matter exactly,"

Edith replied.

Mrs. Beale reflected, caressing her daughter the while, and under the

soothing influence of her loving touch, Edith's countenance began to

relax.

"When is Mosley coming?" her mother said at last.

Edith's face contracted again, and she rose to her feet. "I don't know,

mother," she answered coldly.

The chime rang out at this moment, and she frowned as she listened to it.

"I wish those bells could be stopped!" she exclaimed, "They deafen me."

Mrs. Beale had also risen from her chair, smiling mechanically, but with

pain and perplexity at her heart. "I am sure it is the journey," she said.

"It has quite upset you. Your nerves are all jarred. You must really lie

down for a little--see, dearest, here on the couch; and keep quite

quiet." She arranged the cushions.

"Come, dear," she urged, "like a good child, and I will cover you up."

Edith had been accustomed to this kind of gentle compulsion all her life,

and as she yielded to it now she began to feel more like herself. "I knew

I should be better with you, mother," she said sighing; and then she

reached up her arm, and drew her mother's face down to hers. "Kiss me,

mother, and tell me you forgive me for being impatient."

"Dear child, you are not impatient," her mother answered, adding to

herself, as she returned to her seat; "I hope it is only impatience!"

Edith had turned her face to the wall, and soon appeared to be asleep.

Then her mother went down to the library. The bishop rose from his writing

table when she entered. It was a habit of his to be polite to his wife.

"I think you were right last night about Edith," she said. "She is not as

she should be. Write to Dr. Galbraith. Ask him to come here to-morrow. Ask

him to dine and stay the night, as if it were only an ordinary visit--not

to alarm her, you know. But tell him why we want him to come. I am nervous

about her."

Mrs. Beale's face quivered, and she burst into tears as she spoke.

"Oh, my dear! I am sure there is no need to agitate yourself," the bishop

exclaimed. "Now do--now don't, really! See! I will write at once."

He sat down, and began, "My dear George," and then looked up at his wife

to see if she were not already relieved.

Mrs. Beale could not speak, but she stroked his head once or twice in

acknowledgment of his great kindness. Then more tears came because he

_was_ so very kind; and finally she was obliged to go to her own room

to recover herself.

As the day wore on, however, she became reassured. Edith seemed much

refreshed by her sleep, and, in the afternoon when the three ladies came

from the castle to call upon her, bringing Angelica with them, she quite

roused up.

"What, Angelica a grown up young lady in a long dress!" she exclaimed.

"But where is Diavolo?"

"We had a slight difference of opinion this morning," Angelica answered

stiffly.

"Dear me! that is a new thing!" Mrs. Beale commented.

"No, it is not," Angelica contradicted, bridling visibly. "Only, when we

were younger we used to--settle our differences--at once, and have done

with them. But now that I am in long dresses Diavolo won't do that, so we

have to sulk like married people."

"But, my dear child, I don't see why you should quarrel at all," Mrs.

Beale remonstrated.

"You would if you were with us, I expect," Angelica answered, and then she

turned her attention to Edith, but not by a sign did she betray, the

slightest consciousness of the latter's disfigurement--unless making

herself unusually agreeable was a symptom of commiseration; and in this

she succeeded so thoroughly that when the others rose to go Edith did not

feel inclined to part with her.

"Won't you stay with me here a few days?" she entreated.

Angelica reflected. "It would do him good, I should think," she said at

last.

"I should think it would!" Edith agreed, laughing.

"Did I speak?" said Angelica.

"Yes," Edith answered. "You informed me that you are going to stay here in

order to punish Diavolo by depriving him of your society for a time."

"I am sure I did not say all that!" Angelica exclaimed.

"Well, not exactly, perhaps," Edith confessed; "but you led me to infer

it."

"Well, I will stay," Angelica decided. "Aunt Fulda, I'm going to stay here

for a few days with Edith," she answered.

"Very well, dear," her aunt meekly rejoined. "Are you going to stay now?"

"Yes. Tell Elizabeth to bring me some wearing apparel."

As they drove back to Morne, Lady Claudia scolded Lady Fulda for so weakly

allowing Angelica to have her own way in everything.

"I thought you would agree with me that the sweet womanly influence at the

palace would do her good," Lady Fulda answered, in an injured tone.

"'Sweet womanly' _nonsense_!" said Lady Claude. "She will twist them

all round her little finger, and turn the whole place upside down before

she leaves, or I am much mistaken."

"Well, dear, If you would only make Angelica do what _you_ wish while

you are here to influence her I should be thankful," Lady Fulda rejoined

with gentle dignity.

Lady Claudia said no more.

Things went merrily at the palace for the rest of the day. Mrs. Orton Beg

called, and Mr. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe, between whom and Angelica there was

always an excellent understanding; and she entertained him now with

observations and anecdotes which so amused Edith that, as Mrs. Beale said

to the bishop afterward: "The dear, naughty child quite took her out of

herself."

Angelica had never been in the same house with a baby before, and she was

all interest. Whatever defects of character the new women may eventually

acquire, lack of maternal affection will not be one of them.

"Have you seen the baby?" she asked Elizabeth, when the latter was

brushing her hair for dinner. He had not been visible during the

afternoon, but Angelica had thought of him incessantly.

"Yes, Miss," Elizabeth answered.

"Is he a pretty baby?" Angelica wanted to know.

Elizabeth pursed up her lips with an air of reserve.

"You don't think so?" Angelica said--she had seen the maid's face in the

mirror before her. "What is he like?"

"He's exactly like the bishop, Miss."

Angelica broke into a broad smile at herself in the glass. "What! a little

old man baby!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, Miss--with a cold in his head," the maid said seriously.

When she was dressed, Angelica went to make his acquaintance. On the way

she discovered her particular friend, the bishop, going furtively in the

same direction, and slipped her hand through his arm.

"We'll go together," she said confidentially, taking it for granted that

his errand was the same as her own.

The nurse was undressing the child when they entered, and Edith sat

watching her. She was already dressed for the evening, and looked worse in

an elaborate toilet than she had done in her morning dress. A stranger

would have found it hard to believe that only the year before she had been

radiantly healthy and beautiful. The puzzled, pathetic expression again in

her eyes as she watched the child. She had no smile for him, and uttered

no baby words to him--nor had he a smile for her. He was old, old already,

and exhausted with suffering, and as his gaze wandered from one to the

other it was easy to believe that he was asking each dumbly why had he

ever been born?

"Is _that_ Edith's baby?" Angelica exclaimed in her astonishment and

horror under her breath, slipping her hand from the bishop's arm.

She had seen enough in one momentary glance, and she fled from the room.

The bishop followed her. Mrs. Beale was there when they entered, standing

behind her daughter's chair, but she did not look at her husband, nor he

at her. For the first time in their married life, poor souls, they were

afraid to meet each other's eyes.

CHAPTER VII.

Next day, in the afternoon, Mrs. Beale being otherwise engaged, Edith

proposed that she and Angelica should go for a drive together. Edith was

feeling better, and Angelica had recovered her equanimity. She suggested

that they should drive toward Fountain Towers. Edith had not been on that

road since her marriage, and when they passed the place where she and her

mother had seen the young French girl lying insensible on the pathway with

her baby beside her she was reminded of the incident, and described it to

Angelica, adding: "I have so often longed to know what became of her."

"I can tell you," said Angelica. "I know her quite well by sight. She is

living with Nurse Griffiths, in Honeysuckle Cottage, on Dr. Galbraith's

estate. Nurse Griffiths told us he brought her there one day in his

carriage very ill, and she has been there ever since. He always gets angry

and snaps at you if he's bothered about anybody who's ill or unfortunate,

and Diavolo and I met him that day coming away from the cottage, and he

spoke to us so shortly we were sure there was something bad the matter, so

we went to see what it was, and Nurse Griffiths said she was French. I've

not been there since, but I expect it's the same girl. Shall we stop and

see? We pass the end of the lane where the cottage is."

Edith agreed eagerly. She said it would be a relief to her mind to know

that the girl was well cared for and happy.

"Oh, everybody is well cared for and happy on Dr. Galbraith's estate,"

said Angelica. "His tenants worship him. And they would rather be abused

by him than complimented by anybody else."

The cottage, covered with the honeysuckle from which it took its name,

stood in a large old-fashioned garden, at the edge of a fir plantation,

which sheltered it from the northeast wind at the back, and filled the air

about it with balsamic fragrance.

Edith and Angelica left the carriage at the end of the lane and walked up.

"What a lovely spot!" Edith exclaimed. "On a still bright day like this it

makes one realize what the Saints meant by 'holy calm,' I think I should

like to live in such a place, and never hear another echo from the outside

world."

"I suppose you would just like to add dear Mosley to the establishment,"

Angelica suggested.

Edith's heart contracted. She had not thought of her husband, and now when

she did it was with a pang, because she could not include him in her idea

of Eden.

The French girl was standing at the door of the cottage with a child in

her arms.

"Is Nurse Griffiths in?" Angelica asked.

Edith looked at the child. It should have been running about by that time,

but it was small and rickety, with bones that bent beneath its weight,

slight as it was. Edith had looked at it first with some interest, but its

unhealthy appearance repelled her. She managed, however, to speak to the

girl about it kindly.

"What is your baby's name?" she asked.

"Mosley Menteith," was the answer.

For a moment it seemed to Edith as if all the world were blotted out, and

then again the hum of bees, the chirrup of birds, the fall of a fir-cone,

the call of the cock-pheasant in the wood sounded obtrusively, making the

girl's voice as she continued speaking appear far off and indistinct.

"I called him after his father, then, didn't I?" she was saying to the

baby in good English, but with a French accent. "And he's to grow up, and

be a big strong fellow and beat his father, isn't he, for he's a bad, bad

man!"

Nurse Griffiths hearing voices in the porch came out.

"Hush, Louise," she said to the girl. "You've no call to talk in that way

now. You must excuse her," she added to the ladies. "She's had a bad

bringing up."

"I can't--believe you," Edith faltered. "Tell me--exactly."

"Well, it was in this way," the girl rejoined, speaking in the prosaic

tone in which her countrywomen are accustomed to discuss matters that

inspire ours with too much disgust to be mentioned. "Menteith came after

me, and my sister wanted money, so she made me believe that he couldn't

marry me because there was a law, to prevent it. She said he loved me, and

if I loved him well enough, it would be a noble thing to disregard the

law, and he gave her seventy-five pounds for that. I found her letter to

Menteith about it, and I've got it here," tapping the bosom of her gown.

"He took me abroad when he wanted to get rid of me, and left me in Paris

with five pounds in my pocket; but it was enough to bring me back. I was

sick when I landed at Dover, and they sent me to the workhouse; and when I

got well again I told them I had friends in Morningquest, and they gave me

a little help to get there; but I had to tramp most of the way, and I was

weak--I couldn't have got as far as I did if I hadn't wanted to kill them

both."

"Now, hush!" said Nurse Griffiths. "The Lord saved you from such a sin."

"The Lord!" said the girl derisively. "If the Lord had been inclined to

help me, he wouldn't have waited till I came to murder. It wasn't the Lord

saved _me_."

"She will say that, and I can't cure her," Nurse Griffiths declared. "But

I'm afraid you're feeling the heat, ma'am, and you are not very strong,"

she added, addressing Edith, who was clinging to the porch for support,

looking strangely haggard. "Won't you come in and sit down a bit?"

"No, thank you, it is nothing," Edith answered steadily, recovering

herself.

"Will you come and sit down with me on that seat?" she said to Louise,

indicating a rustic bench under an old pear tree at the end of the garden.

"I want to talk to you."

Nurse Griffiths and Angelica remained in the porch.

"Who is that lady, Miss?" the nurse asked when Edith was out of hearing.

"Lady Menteith," Angelica answered.

The woman threw up her hands. "O Lord! have mercy upon her--and upon us!

What a cruel, cruel shame! She's showing her the letter. Eh! it's enough

to kill her. You generally know all the mischief that's going, Miss! Why

did you bring her here?"

"I wish I had known this, then," said Angelica, whose heart was thumping

painfully. "If any harm comes of it, I shall always think it was my

fault."

"Well, there's no call to do that if you didn't know," the woman answered.

"I see she was a great lady myself, but I never thought it was _her_.

Eh! but it's the dirty men makes the misery."

On the way back, Edith stopped the carriage at the telegraph office, and

despatched a message to her husband to come to her, "Come at once."

They only arrived in time to dress hurriedly for dinner, and when they

went down to the drawing room they found Dr. Galbraith there with the

bishop and Mrs. Beale.

"Where have you two been the whole afternoon?" the latter asked.

"We had tea in the library at Fountain Towers," Angelica answered easily,

"and obtained some useful knowledge from your books."

Dr. Galbraith looked hard at her: "I wonder what devilment you've been up

to now?" he thought.

But Angelica's manner was as unconcerned as possible. Edith's was not,

however. Her face was flushed, her eyes unnaturally glittering, and she

became excited about trifles, and talked loudly at table; and in the

drawing room after dinner she could not keep still. Mrs. Beale asked

Angelica to play, and Angelica tried something soothing at first, but

Edith complained impatiently that those things always made her melancholy.

Then Angelica played some bars of patriotic music, stirring in the

extreme, but Edith stopped her again.

"That wearies my brain," she said, and began to pace about the room, up

and down, up and down. Her mother watched her anxiously. Angelica closed

the piano. Dr. Galbraith and the bishop came in from the dining room, and

then Edith declared that driving in the open air had made her so sleepy

she must go to bed.

Angelica noticed that Dr. Galbraith scrutinized her face sharply as he

shook hands with her.

"God bless you, my dear child," the bishop said when she kissed him, and

his lips moved afterward for some seconds as if he were in prayer. Her

mother followed her out of the room; and then silence settled on the three

who were left. The bishop was obviously uneasy. Dr. Galbraith's

good-looking plainness was softened by a serious expression which added

much to the attractiveness of his strong kind face. Angelica shivered, and

was about to break the spell of silence boldly in her energetic way, when

suddenly, and apparently overhead, a heavy bell tolled once.

It was only the cathedral clock striking the hour, but it sounded

portentously through the solemn stillness of the night, and with quickened

attention they all looked up and listened.

Slowly the big bell boomed forth ten strokes. Then came a pause; and then

the chime rolled through the room, a deafening volume of sound, in long

reverberations, from amidst which the constant message disentangled itself

as it were, but distinctly, although to each listener with a different

effect:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,

slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

It awoke Dr. Galbraith from a train of painful reflections; it reassured

the bishop; and it made Angelica fret for Diavolo remorsefully.

CHAPTER VIII.

Angelica must have fallen asleep the moment she got into bed that night,

and just as instantly she began to dream. She had never hitherto felt a

throb of passion. She had given the best love of her life to her brother,

and had made no personal application of anything she had heard, or seen,

or read of lovers, so that the possibility of ever having one of her own

had never cost her a serious thought. But the excitement of that day and

the occupations had so wrought upon her imagination that when she slept

she dreamt, and in her dream she saw a semblance, the semblance of a man,

a changing semblance, the features of which she could not discern,

although she tried with frenzied effort, because she knew that when she

saw him fully face to face he would be hers. They were not in this world,

nor in the next. They were not eyen in the universe. They were simply each

the centre of a great light which formed a sphere about them, and

separated them from one another; and heaven and hell, and earth and sky,

and night and day, and life and death were, all added to the glory of

those spheres of light. And she knew _how_; but there is no word of

human speech to express it. She lay on light, she stood on light, she sat

on light, she swam in light; and wallowed, and walked, and ran, and

leaped, and soared, rolling along in her own sphere until the monotony

made her giddy; and all her endeavour was to reach her lover, not for

himself so much as because she knew that if their two lights could be

added in equal parts to each other and mingled into one, their combined

effulgence would make a pathway to heaven. But try as she would she could

not attain her object, and finally she became so exhausted by the struggle

that she was obliged to desist. The moment she did so, however, the other

sphere tamed of its own accord, and rolled up to her. "Dear me!" said

Angelica. "How easily things are done when the right time comes!" The

semblance now took shape, and kissed her. "How nice!" thought Angelica,

returning the kiss. "This is love. Love is life. I am his. He is mine.

Most of all, he is _mine!_" "No, we can't allow that!" said a chorus

of men from the earth. "You're beginning to know too much. You'll want to

be paid for your labour next just as well as we are, and that is

_unwomanly!_" But Angelica only laughed and kissed her lover. "Talk

does no good," she said; "this is the one thing the great man-boy-booby

understands at present!" So she kissed him again, and every time she

kissed him, he changed. He was Samson, Abraham, Lot, Antony, Caesar, Pan,

Achilles, Hercules, Jove; he was Lancelot and Arthur, Percival, Galahad

and Gawaine. He was Henry VIII., Richelieu, Robespierre, Luther, and

several Popes. He was David the Psalmist, beloved of the man-god of the

Hebrews. He was golden-haired Absalom, and St. Paul in his unregenerate

days. But he never was Solomon. She saw hundreds of women dividing Solomon

among them, and cherishing the little bits in the Woman's Sphere of their

day, and they offered her a portion, but she refused to take it. She said

she would have the whole of him or none at all, and they were horribly

shocked. They said: "Fie! you are no true woman! A woman is satisfied with

very little, and silently submits." But Angelica answered: "Rubbish! What

do you know of womanhood and truth? you talk like a bishop!" And the

clergy were dreadfully offended at this. They said she was all wrong. They

said it mildly. They shouted it rudely. They whispered it persuasively,

and then they blustered. "We are right, and you are wrong!" they

maintained. "Well, I have only your word for that," said Angelica, which

provoked them again. "We speak in the name of the Lord!" they answered.

"Oh, anybody could do that," said Angelica, "but it wouldn't prove that

they have the Lord's permission to use his name." Then they reminded her

that the true spirit of God had been bestowed upon them for transmission,

and she answered: "Yes, but it was taken from you again for your sins, and

confided to us; and wherever a virtuous woman is, there is the spirit of

God, and the will of God, and there only!" Then they drew off a little and

consulted, and when they spoke again they had lowered their tone

considerably. "But you will allow, I suppose, that we have done some good

in the world?" they said collectively. "Oh, yes," she answered, "you have

done your duty here and there to the best of your ability, but your

ability was considerably impaired by vice. However, you have brought the

world up out of the dark ages of physical force at our instigation, and

helped to prepare it for us; now step down gracefully, take your pensions

and perquisites, and hold your tongues. Men are the muscle, the hard

working material of the nation; women are the soul and spirit, the

directing intelligence." They were about to reply, but before they could

do so, a stentorian voice proclaimed:

"HOME IS THE WOMAN'S SPHERE!"

"Who are you?" said Angelica coolly. "I am the Pope of Rome," he answered,

strutting up to her with dignity. "And what do _you_ know about the

Woman's Sphere?" she said laughing. "I am informed of God!" he declared.

But she answered that she had much later information, and slammed the

doors of the Sphere in his face. Then she peeped through the keyhole, and

saw that the pope was in consultation with the Archbishops of Canterbury

and York, and two popular cardinals. They were very quiet at first, but

presently they began to quarrel. "Don't make such a noise," she shrieked

through the keyhole: "go away and be good, will you? We're very busy in

here, and you disturb us. We're revising the moral laws." The shock of

this intelligence electrified them, and while they stared at each other

helplessly, not knowing what to do, she armed herself with the vulgar

vernacular, which was the best weapon, she understood, to level at cant.

"Lord," she said to herself, "how Diavolo would enjoy this! I wish he was

here!" She found the work of the Sphere very heavy, and she tried to

remember the name of some saint, but for the life of her she couldn't

think of any, so she called upon Ouida and Rhoda Broughton. Then she

peeped through the keyhole again, and finding that the pope was listening,

she squirted water into his ear. The other Ecclesiastical Commissioners

remained in the background, looking anxious. "We're attending to man the

iniquitous now," she called to them kindly to relieve their minds. "He's

been too much for you, it seems, but we'll soon settle him." "You're a

nasty-minded woman," said the pope. "Always abusive, old candles and

vestments," Angelica retorted. "Candles and vestments--_in excess_"

said the Archbishop of York hurriedly. "Where?" And he went off to see

about them. "To the pure all things are pure," a powerful voice proclaimed

at that moment. "Ah, that is St. Paul!" said Angelica, surprised and

delighted, and then she shook hands with him. "The sacred duties of wife

and mother," one of the cardinals began to pipe--"There you are meddling

again," Angelica interrupted him rudely; "will you go away, and let us

mind our own business?" "This is all your fault," the pope said to the

Archbishop of Canterbury. The archbishop defended himself courteously, but

another quarrel seemed inevitable nevertheless. Before it could come off,

however, it suddenly appeared that if it were anything it was UNWOMANLY!

About that they were quite in accord; and having made the discovery they

went their several ways, shaking their several heads impressively. "Now I

shall have time to consider the state of the Sphere," said Angelica. "Just

wait till I can come and teach you your duty," she called to the women

there. "I am not Esther, most decidedly! But I am Judith. I am Jael. I am

Vashti. I am Godiva. I am all the heroic women of all the ages rolled into

one, not for the shedding of blood, but for the saving of suffering." They

did not understand her a bit, however, they were so dazed, and they all

looked askance at her. "I see," she said; "I shall have to save you in

spite of yourselves." But when she had looked a little longer, and seen

men, women, and children crowding like loathsome maggots together, she was

disheartened. "All this filth will breed a pestilence," she said, "and I

shouldn't be surprised if that pestilence were ME!" But just at that

moment the light went out, someone uttered a cry, and Angelica awoke. The

room was flooded with moonlight. "I am awake now," she said to herself,

"and that was a real cry. It was 'murder!' I think"--and she rose

intrepidly to rush to the rescue. She was going off at once, just as she

was, in her nightdress; but the house was so still at the moment that she

thought she might be mistaken. She was determined to go and see for

herself, however, in order to make sure; and having pinned up her hair,

she put on her shoes and stockings and a dressing gown, and opened the

door, her heart beating wildly all the time. It was a sickening sensation.

But as she listened she became aware of voices speaking naturally, and

people moving to and fro, which somewhat reassured her. She left the room,

however, and ran down the corridor.

At the farther end a bright shaft of light streamed across it from a

half-open door, and she heard Edith speaking wildly.

"My poor child! my poor child," Mrs. Beale answered with tears in her

voice. "Do try and calm yourself. Won't you tell us this story that is

troubling you now? You will feel better if you tell us."

"No, no," Edith answered quickly. "I will not tell you until he comes, any

of you. But _when_ he comes!" There was a pause, then she asked

feebly: "Doctor, what is the matter with my head?" But before he could

answer, she broke out into a stream of horrid imprecations.

Angelica put her hands to her ears, and flew back past her own room to the

top of the stairs. There she encountered the bishop. He was trembling. He

was at a loss. Nothing he had ever studied either in theology or

metaphysics had in the slightest degree prepared him for the state of

things in society which he was now being forced to consider.

"My dear child!" he exclaimed, "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I'm frightened! I'm frightened!" Angelica cried, thumping him hard on

the chest with both fists. "Let us go away and hide ourselves!" She seized

his hand impetuously, and dragged him downstairs after her sideways, a

mode of descent which was more rapid than either safe or graceful for a

little fat bishop in evening dress.

"Come, come, come to the library with me, and talk about God and good

angels, and that kind of thing," she cried.

"But this is the middle of the night," the bishop objected.

"Well, and is there any time like the present?" Angelica exclaimed. "Come

at once--come and say nice soothing things from the psalms."

As she spoke, she dragged him across the hall and into the library from

whence he had just issued, and then slammed the door. The bishop reproved

her for this, and wanted her to go to bed, but she refused. "Go to bed,

and lie awake in the dark with horrid words about, how can you expect it?"

she demanded. "I shall not go to bed unless you come and sit beside me all

night long."

Poor Angelica! impetuous, imperious, but in that she was her father's

daughter, not saved by her wonderful intelligence from being fantastical.

There must inevitably have been an element of broad farce in the veriest

tragedy into which she might have been brought at that time, an element

which was rendered all the more conspicuous by her own inability to

perceive at the moment that she was behaving ridiculously, and making

others ridiculous. But the bishop himself was not conscious of any

absurdity or loss of dignity. It was only the inconvenience that he felt

just then. For he was fresh from a painful interview with Dr. Galbraith,

and every nerve was jarring in response to the horror that had come upon

him. His heart was wrung, and his conscience did not acquit him. He did

recognize now, however, that Angelica was in no fit state of mind to be

left alone, and sitting down beside a little table on which stood his

constant companion and friend for many years, a large quarto copy of the

Bible, he folded his hands upon it, seeming to pray, while he waited

patiently until she should have calmed herself.

Her indignation had driven her to seek a more popular form of relief than

the bishop had chosen. As she paced up and down the room in evident

agitation, every now and then stopping short to wring her hands when

terrible thoughts came crowding, she became in her own mind exceedingly

abusive.

She revised and enlarged her reply to that cardinal who had piped to her

earlier in the night about the sacred duties of wife and mother. "What do

_you_ know about 'the Sacred Duties of Wife and Mother'?" she jeered,

increasing her pace as her passion waxed. "Wait until you're a wife and

mother yourself, and then perhaps you'll be able to give an opinion; and,

meanwhile, attend to your own 'Sacred Duties.' You _will_ come poking

your nose into the Sphere where it's not wanted"--she shook her fist at

him--"with your theories." She exclaimed: "You meddling priest! What

you're afraid of is that there won't be slaves enough in the world to make

money for you; or poor enough to bear witness to your Christian charity!

You needn't be afraid, though. So long as we have _you_ there'll be

poverty in plenty!" Here she became conscious of the attitude of her

companion. The bishop blotted out the cardinal. His wrinkled hands, meekly

folded; his white head bowed; his benign face expressive of intense mental

suffering heroically borne, impressed her. "Resignation? No, not

resignation exactly," her thoughts ran on. "To be resigned is to

acquiesce. Resistance? Yes. To resist--but not to resist with rage. Be

firm, but be gentle." She sat down at last in an easy-chair and leaned

back, looking up at the ceiling. In a few minutes she was fast asleep.

When she awoke the room was empty, but outside she heard receding

footsteps, and springing up with characteristic impetuosity she followed

after "to see for herself."

The shutters were still closed in the library, and the lamps were burning;

but it was broad daylight in the hall, and a heavy squall of rain was

beating against the windows with mournful effect. Angelica saw a

manservant standing beside some baggage as she passed, and wondered who

had arrived.

At the foot of the stairs she overtook Dr. Galbraith, and caught his arm.

"Is Edith better?" she exclaimed.

Dr. Galbraith looked down at her, clasped both her hands in one of his as

they rested on his arm, and led her upstairs. Before they reached the top,

his firm, cool touch had steadied her nerves, and calmed her.

"This is your room, I think," he said, stopping when they reached it.

Angelica took the hint, and went in, but she did not shut the door. "You

might have told me, you pig, and then perhaps I should have been

satisfied," she reflected, standing just inside her room, holding her head

very high, and straining her ears to listen. She heard Dr. Galbraith go to

the end of the corridor, and then, as the sound of his footsteps ceased,

she knew that he must have gone into Edith's room. The house was

oppressively still. "I suppose I am to be tortured with suspense because I

am young," she thought, and then she followed Dr. Galbraith.

The shutters were still closed in Edith's room, and the gas was burning.

Nobody had thought of letting the daylight in. The door was open, and a

screen was drawn across it, but Angelica could see past the screen. She

saw Edith first. She was lying on her bed, still dressed, and sensible

now, but exhausted. Her yellow hair, all in disorder, fell over the pillow

to one side, and on the same side her mother sat facing her, rocking

herself to and fro, and holding Edith's hand, which she patted from time

to time in a helpless, piteous sort of way.

Edith was lying on her back, with her face turned toward Angelica. There

were deep lines of suffering marked upon it, and her eyes glittered

feverishly, but otherwise she was gray and ghastly, and old. It was the

horrible look of age that impressed Angelica. There were three gentlemen

present, the bishop, Dr. Galbraith, and Sir Mosley Menteith.

Edith was looking at her father. "That is why I sent for you all," she was

saying feebly--"to tell you, you who reprersent the arrangement of society

which has made it possible for me and my child to be sacrificed in this

way. I have nothing more to say to any of you--except"--she sat up in bed

suddenly, and addressed her husband in scathing tones--"except to you. And

what I want to say to you is--Go! go! Father! turn him out of the house.

Don't let me ever see that dreadful man again!"

She fell back on her pillow, white and still, and shut her eyes.

"My darling, you will kill yourself!" her mother exclaimed.

Dr. Galbraith stepped to the side of the bed hurriedly, and bent over her.

The bishop stood at the foot, holding on to the rail with both hands, his

whole face quivering with suppressed emotion. Menteith gave them a

vindictive glance, and then stole quietly away. Angelica had made her

escape, and was standing at the head of the stairs, wringing her hands.

She was trembling with rage and excitement. "I am Jael--I am Judith--No! I

am Cassandra," she was saying to herself. "I must speak!"

"I wish to God I hadn't answered that telegram so promptly--coming to be

made an exhibition of by a sick woman in her tantrums," Menteith reflected

as he walked down the corridor. "I'm surprised at Edith. But it is so like

a woman; you never can count upon them." Here he caught sight of Angelica,

and quite started with interest. "That's a deuced fine girl," he thought,

and followed her to the library instinctively.

A servant had just opened the shutters. Angelica went to one of the

windows and, throwing it up to the top, inhaled a deep breath of the fresh

morning air. The rain had stopped. The servant put out the lamps and

withdrew, after standing aside for a moment respectfully to allow Sir

Mosley Menteith to enter. The latter glanced round the room, but Angelica

was hidden by the curtain in the deep embrasure of the window. Menteith

bit his nails and stood still for some time. Then the bishop came,

followed by Dr. Galbraith, and walked straight up to him. It was a bad

moment for Sir Mosley Menteith. He tried to inspect his father-in-law

coolly, but his hand was somewhat tremulous as he raised it to twist the

ends of his little light moustache.

"My daughter wishes you to leave the house," the bishop said sternly;

"and--eh--I may say that I--that _we_--eh--her father and mother,

also wish you to go--eh--now, at once."

Angelica sprang from her hiding place. "And take that," she cried, "for a

present, you father of a speckled toad!" And seizing the heavy quarto

Bible from the table, she flung it with all her might full in his face. It

happened to hit him on the bridge of his nose, which it broke.

CHAPTER IX.

Later in the day Lord Dawne, who had ridden in, saw Dr. Galbraith's

carriage waiting before Mrs. Orton Beg's little house in the Close. He

reined in his horse, which was fidgety, and at the same moment Dr.

Galbraith came out.

"Nothing wrong here, I hope?" Lord Dawne inquired.

"No," was the curt response, "it is that poor child at the palace. I have

been up with her all night."

"What is the matter now?" Lord Dawne inquired.

"Now--it is her brain," the doctor answered; then stepped into his

carriage and was driven away.

Lord Dawne dismounted and met Mrs. Orton Beg, who was coming out with her

bonnet on.

"No hope, I suppose!" he said in a tone of deep commiseration.

"Oh, it is worse than death!" she answered. "I am going there now. Dr.

Galbraith says I shall be of use."

The bishop and Angelica spent some time in the library together that

morning. The bishop had sent for Angelica to talk to her, and she had come

to talk to the bishop; and, being quicker of speech than he, she had taken

the initiative.

"Did you ever feel like a horse with a bearing rein, champing his bit?"

she began the moment she burst into the room.

"No, I never did," said the bishop severely.

"Ah! then I can never make you understand how I feel now!" she said,

throwing herself on to a chair opposite to him, sideways, so that she

could clasp the back. "You look very unsympathetic," she remarked.

"It seems to me," the bishop began with increased severity, "that you have

no respect for anybody."

"No, I have not," she answered decidedly--"at least not for bishops and

doctors who let Menteith miscreants loose in society to marry whom they

please."

The bishop winced.

"I am sorry to have to reprove you seriously," he recommenced, shaking his

head. "But I feel that I should not be doing my duty if I neglected to

point out to you the extremely reprehensible nature of your conduct, first

in causing grievous distress of mind to Edith, in consequence of which

partly she is now lying dangerously ill upstairs--"

Angelica stopped him by suddenly assuming a dignified position on her

chair. She looked hard at him, and as she did so great tears came into her

eyes, and ran down her cheeks. "If I have done Edith any injury," she

exclaimed, "I shall never forgive myself."

"Well, well," said the bishop kindly--

"But do you think I was so much to blame?" Angelica demanded, interrupting

him. "I only did what you and Mrs. Beale and everybody else did--took it

for granted that she had married a decent man. But go on," said Angelica,

throwing herself back in her chair, and folding her arms. "What else have

I done?"

"You have grievously injured a fellow-creature."

"Oh,'fellow' if you like, and 'creature' too," said Angelica; "but the

injury I did him was a piece of luck for which I expect to be

congratulated."

"You took the sacred word of God," the bishop began--

"Because of the weight of it," Angelica interrupted again, "figuratively,

too, it was most appropriate. I call it poetical justice, whichever way

you look at it, and"--she burst into a sudden squall of rage--"if you nag

me any more I'll throw Bibles about until there isn't a whole one in the

house!"

The bishop looked at her steadily. "I shall say no more," he observed very

gently; "but I beg of you to reflect." Then he opened the quarto Bible and

began to read to himself. Angelica remained sitting opposite to him,

looking moodily at the floor; but now and then they stole furtive glances

at each other, and every time the bishop looked at Angelica he shook his

head.

"Things have gone wrong in the Sphere," slipped from Angelica at last.

"'The Sphere'?" said the bishop looking up. "What Sphere?"

"_The Woman's Sphere!_" Angelica answered solemnly, and then she told

him her dream. It took her exactly an hour to relate it with such comments

and elucidations as she deemed necessary, and the bishop heard her out.

When she finished he was somewhat exhausted; but he said that he thought

it a very remarkable dream.

"If you had been able to manage the Sphere, you see," Angelica concluded,

"and to regulate the extent of it, you would have been able to make it a

proper place for us to live in by this time."

"My dear child, you are talking nonsense!" the bishop exclaimed.

"Well, it may sound so to you at present," Angelica answered temperately;

"but there is a small idea in my mind which won't be nonsense when it

grows up." She was silent for a little after that, and then she ejaculated:

"I shouldn't be surprised if that pestilence were Me!"

"Eh?" said the bishop.

"Did I speak?" said Angelica.

"Yes."

"Ah, then, that is because I am tired out. I shall go to bed. Don't, for

the life of you, let anybody disturb me."

She got up and left the room, yawning desperately; and very soon afterward

her aunts came to take her back to Morne; but the bishop obeyed her last

injunction implicitly, and they were obliged to return without her.

The news that Edith had returned to the palace, bringing her little son

for the first time, was soon known in the neighbourhood. The arrival of

the boy was one of those events of life, originally destined to be a great

joy, which soften the heart and make it tender. And very soon carriages

came rolling up with ladies leaning forward in them all in a flutter of

sympathy and interest, eager to offer their congratulations to the young

mother, and to be introduced to the child. And meanwhile Mrs. Beale sat

beside her daughter's bed, patting her slender white hand from time to

time as it lay upon the coverlet, with that little gesture which had

struck Angelica as being so piteous. Edith had not spoken for hours; but

suddenly she exclaimed: "Evadne was right!"

Mrs. Beale rocked herself to and fro, and the tears gathered in her eyes

and slowly trickled down her cheeks, "Edith, darling," she said at last

with a great effort, "do you blame me?"

"Oh, no, mother! oh, no!" Edith cried, pressing her hand, and looking at

her with a last flash of loving recognition. "The same thing may happen

now to any mother--to any daughter--and _will_ happen so long as we

refuse to know and resist." A spasm of pain contracted her face. She

pressed her mother's hand again gently, and closed her eyes.

Presently she laughed. "I am quite, quite mad!" she said. "Do you know

what I have been doing? I've been murdering him! I've been creeping,

creeping, with bare feet, to surprise him in his sleep; and I had a tiny

knife--very sharp--and I felt for the artery"--she touched her neck--"and

then stabbed quickly! and he awoke, and knew he must die--and cowered! and

it was all a pleasure to me. Oh, yes! I am quite, quite mad!"

She did not notice the coming and going of people now, or anything that

was done in her room that day. Only once when she heard a servant outside

the door whisper: "For her ladyship," she asked what it was, and a silver

salver was brought to her covered with visiting cards. She looked at one

or two. "Kind messages," she said, "great names! and I am a great lady

too, I suppose! I made a splendid match. And now I have a lovely little

boy--the one thing wanting to complete my happiness. What numbers of girls

must envy me! Ah! they don't know! But tell them--tell them that I'm

quite, quite mad!"

Mrs. Beale was at last persuaded to go and rest, and Mrs. Orton Beg

replaced her.

"I am glad you have come," said Edith. "I want to show you my lovely

little son. Naturally I want to show him to everyone!" and she laughed.

Late in the evening, when the room was lighted up, Edith noticed her

father and mother and Dr. Galbraith. Angelica was there too, but in the

background.

"Oh-h!" Edith exclaimed with a sudden shriek, starting up in bed--"I want

to kill--I want to kill _him_. I want to kill that monstrous child!"

Dr. Galbraith was in time to prevent her springing out of bed.

"I know I am mad," she moaned in a broken voice. "I am quite, quite mad! I

never hurt a creature in my life--never thought an evil thought of anyone;

why must I suffer so? Father, my head." Again she started up. "Can't

you--can't you save me?" she shrieked. "Father, my head! my head!"

Angelica stole away to her own room, put on her things, and walked back to

Morne alone.

CHAPTER X.

Angelica had been baptized into the world of anguish. She had assisted at

horrid mysteries of life and death, and the experience was likely to be

warping.

She had fled from the palace, first, because she could not bear the place

any longer, and secondly, because she felt imperatively that she must see

Diavolo. He had been in bed and asleep for some time when she went to his

room that night, and awoke him by flashing a light in his face. He was

startled at first, but when he saw who it was, he remembered their last

quarrel and the base way she had deserted him by going to stay at the

palace, and he thought it due to his wounded heart to snap at her.

"What _do_ you mean by disturbing me so late at night?" he drawled

plaintively; "bringing in such a beastly lot of fresh air with you too.

You make me shiver."

"Don't be a fool, Diavolo," Angelica answered. "You know you're delighted

to see me. How nice you look with your hair all tousled! I wish my hair

was fair like yours. Oh! I have such a lot to tell you."

"Get on then," he said, lying back on his broad white pillows resignedly;

"or go away, and keep your confidences till to-morrow. If you would be so

good as to kindly consult my inclinations, that is what I should ask," he

added politely.

Angelica curled herself up on the end of his bed, and leant against the

foot-rail. The room was large and lofty, and the only light in it was that

of the candle which she still held in her hand. She had a walking jacket

on over an evening dress, and a hat, but this she took off and threw on

the floor.

"I've run away," she said. "I walked home all alone."

"What, up all that long dark hill!" he exclaimed, with interest, but

without incredulity. The Heavenly Twins never lied to each other.

"Yes," she answered impressively, "and I cut across the pine woods, and

the big black shadows fluttered about me like butterfly bogies, and I

wasn't afraid. I threw my arms about, and ran, and jumped, and

_breathed!_ Oh!" she exclaimed, "after holding your breath for

twenty-four hours, in a house full of gaslight and groans, you learn what

it is to be able to breathe freely out under the stars in the blessed

dark. And there was a little crescent moon above the trees," she added.

Diavolo had opened his great gray eyes, and looked out over her head

through the wall opposite, watching her with enthusiasm as she "cut across

the pine woods." "And how did you get in?" he asked.

"At the back," she answered. They looked into each other's intelligent

faces, and grinned. "Everybody is in bed," she added, "and I'm half

inclined to return to the palace, and come back to-morrow in the carriage

properly."

"I shouldn't do that," said Diavolo, feeling that such a proceeding would

be an inartistic anticlimax. "And it's to-morrow now, I should think." He

raised himself on his elbow, and peered at the clock on the mantelpiece.

Angelica held up the candle. "It's two," she said. "What do you do when

you first wake up in the morning?"

"Turn round and go to sleep again," Diavolo grunted.

"_I_ always look at the clock," said Angelica. "But I want to tell

you. You know after you said I was a cyclone in petticoats?"

Diavolo nodded. "So you are," he remarked.

"Well, I _am_, then," Angelica retorted. "Have it so, only don't

interrupt me. I can't think why I cared," she added upon reflection; "it

seems so little now, and such a long way off."

"Is it as far from the point as you are?" Diavolo courteously inquired.

"Ah, I'm coming to that!" she resumed, and then she graphically recounted

her late painful experiences, including the bishop's charge to Sir Mosley

Menteith, and poor Edith's last piteous appeal to heaven and earth for the

relief which she was not to receive.

"And did she die?" Diavolo asked in an awestruck whisper.

Being less sturdy and more sensitive than Angelica, he was quite shaken by

the bare recital of such suffering.

"Not while I was there," Angelica answered. "I heard her as I came out.

She was calling on God then."

They were both silent for some moments after this, Angelica fixed her eyes

on the candle, and Diavolo looked up to the unanswering heaven, full of

the vague wonderment which asks Why? Why? Why?

"There is no law, you see," Angelica, resumed, "either to protect us or

avenge us. That is because men made the law for themselves, and that is

why women are fighting for the right to make laws too."

"I'll help them!" Diavolo exclaimed.

"Will you?" said Angelica. "That's right! Shake hands!"

Having solemnly ratified the compact, Angelica boldly asserted that all

the manly men were helping women now, including Uncle Dawne and Dr.

Galbraith.

Then she thought she would go to bed. Of course she had flung the door

wide open when she entered, and left it so, and happening to glance toward

it now, it seemed to her that there was a horrible peculiar kind of pitchy

black darkness streaming in.

"O Diavolo!" she exclaimed, "I'm frightened! I daren't go alone!"

"_You_ frightened!" he jeered, "after dancing home alone in tip dark,

through the pine woods too!"

"There were only birds, beasts, and bogies there--pleasant creatures," she

said. "But here, behind those rows and rows of closed doors, there will be

ghosts of tortured women, and I shall hear them shriek!"

Her terror communicated itself to Diavolo's quick imagination, and he

glanced toward the door apprehensively. Then he deliberately arose, put on

his dressing gown and slippers, and lit a candle, by which time his face

was steadily set. "Come," he said. "I'll see you safely to your room."

"Diavolo, you're a real gentleman!" Angelica protested, "for I know you're

in as big a fright as I am."

Diavolo drew himself up and led the way.

Their rooms were far apart, it having been deemed advisable to separate

them when they first came to the castle, at which time there had been a

curious delusion that distance would do this. The first part of their

progress that night was nervous work, but they had not gone far before the

new aspect which familiar things took on by the light of their candles

arrested their attention.

"The light makes great-grandpapa wink," said Angelica looking up at a

portrait. "And Venus has put on a cloak."

"She's _wrapt in shadow_," said Diavolo poetically.

They were talking quite unconcernedly by this time, and in, their usual

somewhat loud tone of voice, fear of discovery not being one of their

characteristics. They were bound to have awakened any light sleeper, but

it so happened that they passed no occupied rooms but their Uncle Dawne's.

He, however, being up, heard them, and opened his door on them suddenly.

They both jumped.

"What are you two doing?" he said; "and why are you here at all,

Angelica?"

"I didn't think it delicate to stay at the palace any longer under the

circumstances," she answered glibly.

Lord Dawne was struck by the extreme propriety of this reply, "And may I

ask _when_ you returned?" he said.

"Yesterday," she answered, "and I've had nothing to eat since."

"Oh!" he observed. "And you've not had time to remove your walking jacket

either?" He looked hard at her. "I should like very much to know how you

got in," he said, shaking his head.

The Heavenly Twins looked at him affably.

"Well," he concluded, knowing better than to question them--"I suppose you

know where to find food, if that is your object!"

They both grinned.

"Come along, Uncle Dawne, and we'll show you!" Angelica burst out

sociably.

"Yes, _do!_" Diavolo entreated. "Come and revel!"

The Heavenly Twins never worked on any regular plan; their ideas always

came to them as they went on.

Lord Dawne felt that this was really claiming a kinship with him, and a

picture which presented itself to his mind's eye, of himself foraging for

food in his father's castle with the Heavenly Twins in the small hours of

the night, appealed to him. It was an opportunity not to be lost.

"Very well," he said, putting his hands in the pockets of the short velvet

jacket he was wearing, and preparing to follow. The twins led the way,

holding their candles aloft, and descending the stairs in step. But

exactly what the mysteries were into which they initiated their uncle that

night nobody knows. Only they were all very late for breakfast next

morning, and when Lord Dawne saw his sisters, he listened in silence to

such explanations of Angelica's reappearance at the castle as they were

able to offer.

Angelica herself forgot she was not at home, and came down to breakfast

yawning unconcernedly. The exclamation of surprise with which she was

greeted took her aback at first. She had intended to send a carriage,

early in the morning, for her maid Elizabeth, and to walk in herself with

her hat on when it returned, as if she had come in it; but as she only

remembered this intention when Lady Fulda exclaimed "Why, Angelica, how

did you come?" she was obliged to have recourse to the simple truth, and

after answering blandly: "I walked, auntie," she left the matter there for

others to elucidate at their leisure if they chose to make inquiries.

But the accustomed trouble with the Heavenly Twins seemed insignificant at

this time compared with other perplexities which were pending at the

castle. The old duke had been very queer lately. He had "been dreaming and

seeing things," as Diavolo explained to Angelica.

"Storms and what dreams, ye holy gods, what dreams!"

Father Ricardo said they were miraculous temptations of the devil, the

implication being that the poor old duke's soul was more specially worth

wrangling for than those of less exalted sinners. The one dear wish of

Father Ricardo's life was to be mixed up in something miraculous. He was

too humble to expect anything to be revealed to himself personally, but he

had great hopes of the saintly Lady Fulda; and certainly, if concessions

are to be wrung from the Infinite to the Finite by perfect holiness of

life and mind, she should have obtained some. She had become deeply read

in that kind of lore under Father Ricardo's direction, and had meditated

so much about occurrences of the kind that it would; not have surprised

her if she had met "Our Lady" anywhere, bright light, blue cloak,

supernatural beauty, indefinite draperies, lilies, sacred heart, and all.

She had, in fact, thought too much about it, and was becoming somewhat

hysterical, which raised Father Ricardo's hopes, for he was not a

scientific man, and knew nothing of the natural history of the human being

and of hysteria; and, besides, by dint of long watching, fasting, and

otherwise outraging what he believed to have been created in the image of

God, viz., his own poor body, and also by the feverish fervour with which

he entreated Heaven to vouchsafe them a revelation at Morne for the

benefit of Holy Church, he was worn to a shadow, and had become somewhat

hysterical himself. The twins had discovered him on his knees before the

altar in the chapel at night, and had been much interested in the "vain

repetitions" and other audible ejaculations which he was offering up with

many contortions of his attenuated form.

"Isn't he enjoying himself?" Diavolo whispered.

"He must be in training to wrestle with the devil when they meet,"

Angelica surmised.

But all this was having a bad effect upon the old duke. In private, he and

Lady Fulda and the priest talked of nothing but apparitions and

supernatural occurrences generally. Lord Dawne had obtained a hint of what

was going on from some chance observations of the Heavenly Twins, but

until the day after Angelica's return from the palace neither his father

nor sister had spoken to him on the subject.

That morning, however, he happened to go into the chapel to see how the

colours were lasting in some decorative work which he had done there

himself years before, and there he found his father standing in the aisle

to the right of the altar near the door of the sacristy, gazing up fixedly

at a particular panel in the dark oakwork which covered that portion of

the wall.

"Anything wrong, father?" he said, going up to him.

"Dawne," the old duke replied in an undertone, touching his son's arm with

the point of the forefinger of his left hand, and pointing up to the panel

with the stick he held in his right: "Dawne, if it were not for what that

panel conceals--" he ended by folding his hands on the top of his stick,

looking down at the pavement, and shaking his head. "I saw it in a dream

first," he resumed, looking up at the panel. "But now it appears during

every service. It comes out. It stretches its baby hands to me. It sobs,

it sighs, it begs, it prays; and sometimes it smiles, and then there are

dimples about its innocent mouth."

Some disturbance of the atmosphere caused Lord Dawne to look round at this

moment, although he had heard nothing, and he was startled to find his

sister Fulda standing behind him, looking as awestruck as the duke.

"We must tear down that panel!" the old man exclaimed, becoming excited.

"We must exorcise, and purify, and cleanse the house. It is

that--that"--shaking his stick at the panel--"which hinders the Event!

Bury it deep! bury it deep! give it the holy rites, and _then!_" His

voice dropped. He muttered something inaudible, and walked feebly down the

aisle.

Lady Fulda followed him out of the chapel, but presently she returned. Her

brother was still standing as she had left him, looking now at the

pavement and now at the panel, and deep in thought. His grave face lighted

with tenderness as he turned to meet her. She was very pale.

"I am afraid all this is too much for you, Fulda," he said seriously.

"No. This is nothing," she answered. "Nothing--no _human_ excitement

ever disturbs me. But, Dawne, I have seen _it_ myself!"

"It! What, Fulda?"

"The Child--just as he describes it. It appears there"--looking up at the

panel--"and stretches out its little hands to me smiling, but when I move

to take it, it is gone!"

"My dear Fulda," Lord Dawne replied, with a shiver which he attributed to

the chill of the chapel, "people who live in such an atmosphere as you do

are liable to _see things!_"

"It would ease my mind," she said, clasping her hands on his shoulder, and

laying her cheek upon them: "it would ease my mind if that panel were

removed. There is something behind it."

"It must be solid masonry then," he answered, smiling; and, stepping up to

the panel, he tapped it hard with his knuckles; but, contrary to his

expectations, the sound it emitted was somewhat hollow. Then he examined

it carefully, and discovered that it was not fitted into grooves as the

other panels were, but was held in its place by four screws, the heads of

which had been carefully concealed by putty, stained and varnished to the

color of the oak. "I will see about this at once," he said.

The message from the palace that morning, sent by Mrs. Orton Beg, had been:

"Edith still lingers," and Lord Dawne had intended to go there to see the

bishop (in times of sickness and sorrow he was everywhere welcome); but

now he went with the further intention of finding Dr. Galbraith. In this

he was successful, and they had a long talk about the state of affairs at

the castle, and it was finally arranged that Dr. Galbraith should dine

there that evening and remain for the night.

"That panel must be removed," he said, "and it should be done with great

ceremony. The best time would be midnight. But leave all that to Father

Ricardo, and only insist upon one thing, and that is the presence of the

Heavenly Twins."

"Are you meditating a _coup de theâtre?_"

"No, not at all," Dr. Galbraith replied. "Only I am quite sure that if

there is any exorcism to be done, the Heavenly Twins will accomplish it

better than any priest."

Lord Dawne, however, remained somewhat uncertain about the wisdom of this

recommendation, but as Dr. Galbraith had always managed his father's

foibles and other difficult matters at the castle with admirable tact and

delicacy he gave in.

The twins themselves soon perceived that there was something in the air.

During the day several strange priests arrived, all looking more or less

important; but they did not dine with the duke. The demeanour of the

latter was portentously solemn; Diavolo tried to take him out of himself,

but was reproved for his levity; and Father Ricardo and Lady Fulda went

about with exalted expressions of countenance, and looking greatly in need

of food and rest. Even in the early part of the evening nobody talked

much, and as the hours dragged on slowly toward midnight, the silence in

the castle became oppressive. The servants stole about on tiptoe, and in

pairs, being nervous about going into the big empty rooms, and down the

long shadowy corridors alone. There was, besides, a general inclination to

glance about furtively, as the hush of anxious expectancy settled upon

everybody. The twins felt it themselves, but they were everywhere all the

same, and if any particular preparations had been made, it would have been

at the risk of their discovering them. The night was sultry and very dark.

Dr. Galbraith and Lord Dawne stood together, stirring their coffee, at an

open window in the great drawing room.

"It is curiously still," said Lord Dawne, looking out. "It reminds me of

the legend of Nature waiting breathless for the happy release of an

imprisoned soul. I wonder how that poor child Edith is!"

"I would give--I would give anything that anybody could name," Dr.

Galbraith said slowly, "to be quite sure that she would pass into peace

to-night."

"Ah, poor girl! poor innocent girl!" Lord Dawne ejaculated; and then he

said, as if speaking to himself: "How long, O Lord, how long? We are so

powerless; we accomplish so little; the great sum of suffering never seems

lessened, do what we will!"

They were silent for some time after that, each occupied with painful

thoughts, and then Dr. Galbraith spoke with an effort to change the

direction of them.

"A storm to-night would be most opportune," he said.

"But things of that kind never do happen opportunely," Lord Dawne

rejoined. Just as he spoke, however, a brilliant flash of lightning lit up

vividly the precipitous side of the hill and the whole valley beneath them

for a moment.

"Let us hope it is a happy omen," said Dr. Galbraith.

Toward midnight, the various members of the household who were privileged

to be present at the coming ceremony began to assemble in the chapel; but

the very first to arrive found that the Heavenly Twins were before them,

and had secured the best seats for seeing and hearing. The chapel was dim

and even dark at the corners and at the farther end, there being no light

except from the candles which were burning upon the altar. Four priests

were kneeling before it at the rails, and a fifth came out of the sacristy

presently, and passed in. It was Father Ricardo, and as he made the

genuflection, it was seen that his face was irradiated by profound

emotion. He remained on his knees before the altar for some moments, then

he arose, and at the same instant the chapel glowed in every colour of the

prism. It was merely the play of the lightning through the stained glass

windows, but the unexpected effect, combined with the electricity in the

atmosphere and the tension of expectancy, wrought upon the nerves of all

present.